


Moorland

by enemyfrigate



Series: Waypoints [6]
Category: Justified
Genre: Blow Jobs, Closeted Character, Developing Relationship, Feelings, Frottage, Fuckbuddies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 17:34:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2437076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enemyfrigate/pseuds/enemyfrigate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim wants more, and he takes some steps to get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moorland

6:30 a.m. Saturday. The room’s single window shows a pale, cold sky. 

This would be the perfect time to go back to sleep, but Tim is wide awake. 

Fucking Ranger School. Forty days of hell, plus he can never again sleep late. 

Tim throws the blankets back, goes to take a piss, and gets into running gear. He fills a bottle with water and shoves it into the front pocket of his ARMY hoodie. Then he lets himself out, and settles into the rhythm of his route. He does his usual five miles, because there’s no reason not to. 

When Tim gets back, the house - the whole development - is still quiet. He washes off the sweat and finds a pair of jeans he’s only worn twice, and thinks about the empty day stretching ahead of him. Most Saturdays this time of year, he’d settle in to watch some college football, maybe go to the bookstore, maybe see if anyone wants to go get a drink later. Maybe go out and get off with some strange guy. 

Kill time.

Tim goes downstairs for the last of the orange juice and a slice of cold pizza. He leans against the kitchen counter and swallows the pizza in about four bites. It’s three days old and starting to get hard around the edges, but he barely notices. He wipes his hands on his jeans and wanders through to the living room, sipping down orange juice.

He looks around at the townhouse with a critical eye: the bare walls, the empty kitchen, the no-color couch. It occurs to him that he just can’t face another day kicking around the place. 

If all he’s going to do is kill time on weekends, maybe he should just go in to work. 

Tim goes upstairs instead and hauls an old backpack out of his bedroom closet. The zipper barely works, but he forces it open, and tosses in an extra sweatshirt, some bottles of water, and a couple of energy bars. He adds his current book and one of those rain ponchos that folds into a tiny pouch. When he goes out the door he’s wearing good wool hiking socks, decent marching boots, and a Patagonia fleece jacket rated to 10 degrees.

First, he stops at Barnes and Noble, finds a book called _Hiking Kentucky_ , and buys it, valiantly passing by the YA shelves. He’ll come back later this week for a new book. Maybe he’ll ask Raylan to come with. If they each buy their own coffee and pastry, it’s not a date, right? Plus, Raylan likes books. At least, he’s always got some audiobook playing in the car. 

After the bookstore, Tim hits a deli in the same shopping center and gets a turkey club and some chips. He adds a banana from a fruit basket at the register, and a fancy tangerine-pineapple soda. When he gets back to the truck he pages through the hiking book. He just wants to get out of Lexington, and not have to drive for hours. Since he’s not on call he can go as far as he wants, but he doesn’t want to lose daylight driving, so he picks out a mountain trail about an hour away. Once he programs the address into the GPS, he slides a Red Molly CD into the player and puts the truck in gear.

Tim leaves the truck in the gravel parking lot at the trailhead, reads the signs and information panels to see if there’s anything he needs to know - rattlesnakes, hypothermia, the usual - and sets off. The trail is steeper than his thigh muscles are entirely happy with, so Tim makes a mental note to find a place to do some hill running. He’s gone a little soft since leaving the military. He’s okay with that to a point, but he still has standards.

By the time Tim reaches the first lookout point, he’s loosened up all over and every breath gets deep down into his lungs. The air smells like fall - old leaves and damp - and the trees still have some colorful leaves. The views are pretty good, rolling hills, autumn color, but the best part is that it isn’t the city.

By the third look out, he’s getting a little tired, a slight, pleasant weight in his body. The handful of other hikers enjoying the view have claimed all the rustic benches, but there’s a handy rock with a flattish top free, so Tim sits down to eat. He shucks his boots to cool his feet, spreads his food on the rock next to him, and gets his book out.

When Tim comes down off the little mountain, a little tired and loose, he’s got at least an hour ‘til sunset. The hiking book says there’s a little town nearby with some shops, so he heads there. Tim’s not much for the antique-y/arts and crafts vibe of these little hamlets, but this is the sort of thing normal people get up to on their days off, so he gives it a try.

He gives the first few places a look, and turns right around; there’s a lot of small, breakable stuff. One place also reeks of some artificial flower scent, and he doesn’t even get all the way in the door. So he bypasses the next few storefronts, which look like more of the same, and tries a massive antique mall in an old supermarket instead. Maybe he’ll find some cool old guns, or hell, a picture for his bedroom. It’s not like he doesn’t have the wall space. 

Just inside the door, Tim hits the jackpot: a whole bookshelf of military history books, sitting out there for just anyone to buy. By the time the store announces 15 minutes ‘til closing, Tim’s sitting on the floor sorting through a dozen books that caught his eye.

A woman wearing too many necklaces gently kicks him out at closing time, with three new books under his arm. 

Another bookcase might be a good idea, he thinks, as he pages through one of his new acquisitions over a burger at a highway diner. He eats slowly, and adds a piece of pie, taking his time. He’s feeling all mellow and satisfied when he finishes his food, and he throws down a $10 tip on the $15 meal as he heads out the door. 

When Tim gets home, he can’t find a parking space anywhere near the townhouse, and he has to walk the full length of the development to get to his place after parking. He opens the door to chaos. The living room is occupied by about 15 of Wilson’s Army buddies, drinking beer and taking turns on the XBox. 

The place smells like spilled Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and cheap Chinese food. Empty beer cans cover the coffee table. Guys lounge over every surface, floor and walls and furniture. It’s loud with guys telling war stories, and yelling encouragement and instructions - and mockery - at the screen. 

Damn. Tim hasn’t wanted a cigarette all day. Now, he wants to burn off a whole pack.

“Hey, Guts.” Wilson waves in his direction. 

Tim nods, and heads straight into the kitchen. He gets a couple good beers from his shelf in the fridge, maneuvers around the drunks, and goes upstairs. He says hello to Bubba and tips him a couple of pellets. His boots go back in the closet and socks in the hamper before he stretches out on the bed with his new books. 

Before he gets into the history books, Tim goes through the hiking book and dogears a few places he wants to go, avoiding the section around Harlan entirely. Next time he wants to get out on the trail he could ask Raylan. The guy must have spent his childhood running around in the woods. And this friends with benefits thing means they can hang out, right?

There’s a wave of drunken laughter from the living room, channeled right up the stairs. Tim’s got to have smokes somewhere. A half pack, stale, turns up in the inside pocket of his winter coat. He burns off three in a row, and feels the tension seeping away. A few hours later, a final smoke puts the cap on the day, and he chills out enough to sleep.

Wilson and his buddies are still hollering and yelling.

Tim’s lived with worse, in the army. All he has to do is rise above. As Tim starts to fall towards sleep, he has the fuzzy thought: but I don’t have to.

 

Sunday becomes errand day: drugstore, grocery store, that sort of thing. He stays out of the house as long as possible, but eventually gives in because he’s got laundry to do.

When he gets back,Tim spends a frustrating couple of hours on the Internet, trying to get a handle on this thing with Raylan: friends with benefits, fuckbuddies, whatever you want to call it. Half of what he finds says it will end badly, and the rest says it’s a lie, because everyone wants to couple up in the end. 

There’s also a lot of porn. 

The whole thing makes Tim squirm, and eventually he just goes with the pornography. At least he gets something out of that. The jerk off session leaves him feeling pretty good. He’s taking the new stuff he’s done with Raylan - the skin to skin stuff - and woven it into the jumble of homegrown fantasy and porn that make up his usual spank material.

He goes down to basement to do some more laundry, a little sleepy. Mendoza’s on the couch, rummaging for the remote as Tim passes through the living room. Tim raises a hand to him and gets a nod in return. Mendoza was a Ranger, too, and he’s more Tim’s people than Wilson is, in pretty much every way. Not that he knows him that well; they served in different units. 

This place has been rented out to vets so long that it practically has a sign. Empty rooms just got filled up by word of mouth, or Facebook. Which is good in some ways, but the U. S. military is fucking huge, and Tim’s met more assholes than good guys. At least they’ve got some idea where you’re coming from. That’s something.

When Tim comes back upstairs, he claims the other corner of the couch. “Hey, man.”

“Looking good, Guts.” 

Tim snorts. He’s wearing sweats that might be see-through in the right light, and an old undershirt that looks like he found it on the side of a highway. 

Unlike Tim, Mendoza does look good: blue button down shirt, silk tie, pressed slacks. Shiny shoes. He works in a bank, is studying for a Masters in Finance at UK, and he always looks put together, even on a Sunday night.. 

Tim likes him a lot. Sometimes, he wishes they were better friends than they are. 

On the other hand, Mendoza has a couple younger brothers, and he tends to treat his friends the same way. Rachel already does that to him. Tim doesn’t need more.

“How’s the fugitive business?”

“Booming. How’s the money business?”

“Less screwed up than it used to be.” Mendoza slips his tie free, rolls it up, and sets it on the coffee table. “I was going to watch some movies. You in?”

“Sure. Dinner with the family got you stressed out?” Tim copes with alcohol and books. Mendoza copes with movies and obscure TV shows.

“Me and Carly told Ma we’re finally moving in together.”

“But not getting married.”

“Mom thinks we’re afraid of commitment. Also immature. And, apparently, I don’t have enough respect for Carly to actually marry her.”

 _“Finding Nemo?_ ”

“Excellent choice.” Mendoza pulls the case from the shelf.

“If you’re still stressed later, we can watch _Monsters, Inc_.”

Tim raids the fridge between movies for the leftovers Mrs. Mendoza always sends home with her son. He grabs a couple beers and passes one to Mendoza. He’s seen both these movies at least two dozen times, but he’s never bored. They’re simpler worlds. Sort of soothing.

When the credits roll on _Monsters, Inc._ , Tim grabs up the empties and a couple of plates and takes it all into the kitchen. The clock reads just past 10 p.m. Time to retrieve the last of the laundry and head to bed. He does a quick pass on the dishes and puts them into the drainer, with the bottles dumped, first, in the recycling box.

Mendoza turns from putting the DVD cases back and tidying - they’re all sort of compulsive about neatness - as Tim passes through the living room on the way to the basement stairs. “Sometime next month, me and Carly are having a sort of housewarming thing, with me moving in. We’d love for you to come.”

“Sure. Sounds great. Let me know what I can bring.”

“You could bring a date.” Mendoza turns back to the shelves, lining everything up like a drill sergeant. “You really - you should.”

Tim keeps his breathing slow and even. They’ve never talked about this. Tim never brings anyone home, and never talks about girls, never says anything about that part of his life. For all Mendoza knows, He could be a monk. He could be asexual. He could be traumatized. But never saying a word, never joining in the banter, that usually means one thing only. 

As long as it stays unsaid, though, it’s not true, and his buddies all respect that. 

Tim licks his lips, steadies his breathing. Says, only, “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

He makes his escape downstairs, and wastes time folding all his clothes perfectly, like there’s going to be an inspection. The living room is empty when he comes upstairs, and Mendoza’s bedroom door is shut when he gets to the second floor. 

Tim goes to bed. The trickling of the filter in Bubba’s tank is almost as good as the breath of a trusted comrade, in the dark. Somehow, he sleeps. 

 

Monday is full of nagging tasks: testimony prep, tracking down witnesses for hearings and shit, having to interview people that Raylan has already pissed off, like most local law enforcement down in coal country. 

Tim goes out for lunch just to get away from the courthouse. Rachel and Raylan are out knocking on doors, chasing a fugitive who might be visiting his granny. He expects Rachel is exploiting Raylan’s supernatural ability to charm most of the women he meets, and to shoot the shit with most of the men. 

As Tim gets back from eating, he sees Rachel heading into the courthouse ahead of him. So Raylan must be off doing something on his own. Tim turns back to the truck he just parked as if he’s forgotten something, and only hesitates about a second before punching up Raylan’s number. 

“Givens.”

“Hey. Did Rachel abandon you somewhere?”

“What, are you keeping track of me now?” Raylan sounds amused. 

When Tim plays what he just said back, he’s glad that Raylan isn’t annoyed. That did sound kind of possessive. “Nah, I just wondered if you needed to be rescued after she left you on the side of the highway.”

Raylan barks a laugh. “I should be glad there isn’t an ejector seat in her truck. Anyway, Art needed her for some meeting, so she left me here on my lonesome.”

“So, you think you’ll be working late?” Tim turns away from the street, as if somebody might read his lips. “Because I thought we could get together later.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea. We might or might not get a break on this guy. Still got a few more doors to knock. How about I call you when we’re wrapping up, if I’m not back at the office by quittin’ time?” 

“Sounds good,” Tim says. “Be nice to Rachel.”

“I always am.”

 

Tim leaves the office a little after 5 p.m. He doesn’t feel like going home, but he’s sort of waiting on Raylan’s call. The bookstore is always good for wasting time, so he heads there. He picks out a new fantasy book, which he’ll save for later. The in-store cafe provides him with a sandwich, and he flips through a stack of outdoor magazines while he eats. 

Raylan calls after Tim has relaxed into a _Backpacker_ article about dealing with bears on the trail.

“Hey. I’m just heading home. Give me 20 minutes,” Raylan says. 

Tim turns his arm over to look at the watch on the inside of his wrist. “Okay.”

“Okay. See you.” 

It should take about ten minutes to get to Raylan’s motel from here. Tim cleans off his table and takes the magazine up to the cash register. One thing the Rangers did not teach him was how to deal with bears, black, brown, or grizzly. 

Tim spends a couple minutes on his phone before putting the truck in gear and heading out. His e-mail has never been so boring, but he doesn’t want to look too eager. 

“Was your day as stupid as mine?” Raylan stands out of the way to let Tim in. He seems a little tired. He’s in socks and his shirt is untucked and unbuttoned. He looks great.

Tim isn’t sure if he’s allowed to kiss him. “At least you got to be outside.”

“That’s true. C’mere and say hello.” Raylan reels him in by the belt, and kisses him. Tim leans close. The gentle press of Raylan’s mouth turns into open, deep kisses, slow and lingering. Tim’s spine loosens and the world goes a little soft. When Raylan draws back a little, Tim’s flush against Raylan’s chest, hands on his waist.

“Hi,” Raylan says.

Tim has to clear his throat. “Yeah. Hi.”

“You want a beer?” 

Raylan is clearly a madman. Why would he want a beer right now? Tim hates to waste a budding hard-on when he has an actual guy to use it with. But they’re taking it slow today, so he says, “Sure.”

Raylan’s eyes haven’t left his face. “Yeah. Okay.”

Tim summons up all the discipline he developed in the military and shuffles back about six inches. Raylan goes for the mini-fridge. He hands Tim a bottle of Sam Adams, cap already popped. The beer feels good on his now dry throat, and he takes a big gulp. 

“TV?”

“Not here for TV,” Tim says. His brain finally sends him the message: Raylan smells really good. Damn. That’s doing nothing to slow down his arousal. 

“If you want to spend a little more time fooling around, I think we need some kind of distraction,” Raylan says.

“We could take the edge off.”

Raylan narrows his eyes. “Says the guy ten years younger than me.”

Tim looks Raylan up and down. “You look in pretty good shape from where I’m standing.”

Raylan pulls a chair away from the little table and settles back into it. He smirks at Tim over the neck of his beer bottle.

“You are such an asshole.” Tim hooks the other chair from the table with his foot and drags it out. He slides his jacket off, drapes it over the back of the chair, and sits down, a little harder than strictly necessary. 

“Are you going to sulk all night?”

“Not if you get over here and suck my cock.”

“Maybe when I’m finished this beer.” Raylan reaches a long arm to the night table and comes up with the remote. He settles on a Miami Heat game. 

If Tim had ever been inclined to drum his fingers or crack his knuckles or bounce his knee, he’d lost the urge entirely in sniper training. Thoughts are another matter, though, and his are running around his brain like a hamster on a wheel. He’d figured taking it slow would mean just more preliminaries, and maybe not rushing to orgasm after that.

This is hanging out, in private, with sex after. This feels like something else. 

Instead of fidgeting, Tim drinks. He finishes the bottle before Raylan is two-thirds done his own, and goes to the mini-fridge to get another one. If Raylan wants to play this game, then he’ll share his beer.

Tim pops the cap, shoves it in his pocket since he doesn’t see a trash can, swallows a big slug, goes back to his seat. Raylan knows how this goes, right? He should follow Raylan’s lead. So he concentrates on drinking slowly and not making eye contact. 

There’s an injury time out in the game. Raylan looks over at Tim, and Tim sucks on the beer bottle a little. 

“Okay, that’s enough.” Raylan is out of his chair and dropping between Tim’s knees. His hand hovers over Tim’s zipper, and Tim threads his fingers into Raylan’s hair, tips his head back, and closes his eyes. 

Raylan shows him no mercy, bringing him to full and rampant hardness with a gun calloused hand, and taking him deep after, almost into his throat. 

There’s little finesse here, not that Tim needs it. Raylan brings him over the peak brutally fast. Tim tightens his fingers on the Sam Adams bottle as he comes, hanging onto it like a talisman as his hips jerk. 

Raylan pulls away, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Tim pats at his head, clumsy, and hands him the beer bottle. Raylan drinks, hands it back, and Tim gulps the rest. 

“Okay? Can we relax now?” But Raylan’s tone is gentle, and his smirk is more like a smile.

“Yeah, okay.”

“And maybe move this to the bed? Way more comfortable than these hard chairs.” Like he hadn’t insisted they sit down over here in the first place.

Tim levers himself up and follows. He gets out of boots and pants and drifts off next to Raylan, for just a few minutes. When he wakes he thinks that he’s back in Afghanistan. There’s someone else on the bed, and the low chatter of a couple different kinds of background noise. TV, cars and trucks, some woman outside on the phone. But he was never this relaxed, even on base, when he was serving overseas. Plus, none of his comrades had ever smelled this good. Or given him a blow job.

The basketball game is closing in on halftime. Raylan is a warm presence on the other side of the bed, maybe six inches away. TV lights flicker over his chest and off the bottle of beer he’s working on. 

A commercial break blares out and Raylan grabs the remote and turns it down. 

Tim stretches, broadly. His hand smacks into Raylan’s thigh. 

“You want something?” 

“You promised me sex.” Tim sits up.

“What about the game?” But Raylan hits mute.

“You can read the score in the paper tomorrow.”

“C’mere.” Raylan’s hand curls around his bicep and tugs. 

Tim gets his knees on either side of Raylan’s hips and Raylan is pulling him in for a kiss, calloused hand lighting up the sensitive skin of Tim’s arm. Raylan puts his other hand on Tim’s neck, soft, not demanding. 

His fingers drift over Tim’s sensitive ear, down to his jaw and cheek, featherlight. Something unwinds in Tim’s shoulders. 

No one’s ever touched him like that. 

Maybe this wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t make him soften inside, if anyone, ever, touched him gentle.

He can’t remember anyone ever taking care with him. His momma? But he barely remembers her, he was so young when she died. 

Tim whimpers into Raylan’s mouth, and Raylan’s other hand glides up his shoulder, to frame his other cheek. Raylan kisses him like he’s wanted, like he’s giving Tim something, too. 

Somehow, Tim is balancing himself with his hands on Raylan’s shoulders. If he doesn’t hold on, he’ll just fall forward, and he can’t do that, he can’t let himself need so much. He breaks the kiss to haul in air, lets Raylan press quick kisses to his mouth while he pants. 

He sits back and pulls his shirt over his head, lets it drop. 

“Good idea.” Raylan does the same with his own shirt. He tumbles Tim off him with a hand on his ribs. Tim lands on his elbow and watches Raylan unzip and shimmy his jeans off like he’s being timed. 

“Those were getting in the way,” Raylan says, and rolls over against Tim. His mouth goes for Tim’s neck, this time. Tim lets Raylan bear him back, scrabbles at Raylan’s shoulders at the sharp pleasure of teeth dragging light over his collarbone. Takes a breath and slows himself down because he feels like he’s flailing. He kneads his fingers down Raylan’s naked back, long and lithe, works his hands under the waistband of Raylan’s shorts. Spreads his hands out on Raylan’s fantastic ass, firm and round and filling his palms, and pulls the man closer.

It all blurs a bit after that, when Raylan makes a sound and bites at Tim’s shoulder, surging against him a little under Tim’s hands. Tim presses back, turns his head and tries to find Raylan’s mouth. They’re kissing, rich and deep and needy, Raylan pushing and Tim demanding. Raylan rears back and gets them both naked, shorts landing who knows where, while Tim drags his fingertips over Raylan’s sides and back down to his flanks,stroking the crease of his thigh and groin. 

Raylan ends up on his back and Tim scrambles on top of him, gets his mouth on Raylan’s cock, his hands on Raylan’s thighs. He keeps it slow, he wants to savor this, this knowing, of a man who isn’t going to disappear into the night. Raylan doesn’t urge him faster, just sinks his hands into Tim’s hair, wraps a long leg around him. 

The thick head of Raylan’s cock teases the back of Tim’s throat. Tim loses himself: breathes in Raylan’s sweat and musk, mouths the shape of the flesh sliding over his tongue, lets Raylan steer him. His own swollen cock bobs up against his own belly, fully hard, leaking and ready.

Raylan pushes him off, and rolls them over so Tim is under him. His mouth descends to Tim’s once again. Tim shifts one thigh wide to give Raylan room to line up on his cock, and they match slow kisses and thrusts against each other in one rhythm. 

Then Raylan finds a spot under Tim’s ear he didn’t know he had; Raylan’s mouth there brings a moan out of him, and Tim gets his leg around Raylan’s hip, trying to hold him close. Raylan takes the hint and goes after the sensitive skin with lips, teeth, and tongue, shooting pleasure straight to Tim’s dick.

Tim needs more, rocks up hard. Raylan responds to the urgings of Tim’s hips, pushing back, his cock sliding along Tim’s belly, kissing against Tim’s cock.

They rock together for what seems like forever, despite the long build-up. Tim smells like Raylan now, and Raylan probably smells like Tim, both slick with sweat where they come together, where their legs and arms intertwine. 

Raylan gets there first, face twisting a little as he comes, lifting a little so spunk streaks Tim’s belly and chest. Tim takes his weight as he sags down, shoves his hips up for friction, getting frantic. 

Coming is almost a surprise, it’s been building so long. 

Tim needs a minute to get his breath back. He couldn’t move if he wanted to; Raylan is still on him, and he suspects his legs won’t work real well for a few minutes. 

Raylan rolls away and gets up. he comes back from the bathroom with a glass of water and a washcloth. Tim drinks while Raylan cleans them both up, and tosses the cloth at the floor. He finishes the water, sets it on the bedside table, and settles at Tim’s side.

“Slow way’s not bad,” Tim says.

“Glad you liked it.” Raylan says. “You wanna stay?”

Tim is warm and limp and so fucking sleepy. Not moving would be awesome. But he can’t stay. They don’t have that kind of relationship.

He doesn’t want to say that, though. Even though it’s true, it seems kind of rude. “Shit. I can’t. I got a prisoner escort in the morning. And testimony. Need clothes.”

“Well, shit.” Raylan says, lazy. “Can you even get up?”

The fucker is laughing at him. Tim doesn’t care. He feels really good. “Yep. In a minute. You’re warm.” 

 

Tim should have stayed in bed with Raylan. 

The whole townhouse stinks of smoke and burned plastic. Tim stands in the living room, taking in the damage; a good third of the kitchen is straight up destroyed, the rest covered in smoke and soot. The living room wall is scorched, too. 

Fucking Wilson fucking falling asleep while fucking cooking bacon.

Wilson won’t meet his eyes, but Tim isn’t interested in talking to that waste of space. There are a couple of firefighters, and a cop, hanging around outside, but no one he knows. The firefighters told him the townhouse was structurally okay, and that it just needs to be aired out, but that didn’t pacify Tim.

He is so done with this place.

Tim starts to put together the beginnings of a plan. He can’t be out of the townhouse fast enough. He takes his phone out and punches up the contacts: Art, Rachel, Mendoza,, a couple dozen people all told.

He scrolls down and hits Call.

“Yeah?” Raylan says.

“Remember how you said you wanted me to sleep over?”

What they are too each other, well, Tim shouldn’t be expecting favors. Maybe asking Raylan to take him in tonight, maybe for a couple nights, is too much for the little they have between them. 

Especially since he already wants more than he's supposed to.

Fuck it.

Tim reserves the right to break his own goddamn heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Red Molly is a fabulous three woman folk-country-bluegrass band. 
> 
> They do a great version of "You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive," in fact: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iE0hZ-NeGB0
> 
> They do some great original songs, too. Plus, they're great live.
> 
> Hiking Kentucky is a real book, but I have not read it.


End file.
